The Spaces Between (A Drunkard's Journey) (31 page)

Torplug was unable to finish his spell. Purple light had only begun to dance on his fingertips when a swirling green finger of lightning leaped off the seith’s hand and skittered across the short distance between him and the mage. For Zhy, the event unfolded in slow motion—the green light arced forward, dripping tiny tendrils of a paler green light. Torplug tried to unleash
Bolt of Sacuan
.

The bolt was half-formed when the green tendrils sliced through—darting between the mage’s fingers.
Bolt of Sacuan
splintered, and the green bolt suddenly split into a hundred different tentacles of light. Zhy and Qainur watched in horror as the tentacles crawled over the small-man, covering him in a net of bright light. Then there was a crack, and a small white ball of light flew out from the seith’s other hand, suddenly plowing into the small-man’s chest. He had no chance on the slippery stairs. His body stumbled. He tried to move his legs, but the magical spell kept him upright and in place. The combination of spells lifted him up and out, then sideways, and he dangled over the cavern.

Qainur screamed inside his invisible cage and bashed the sword hilt against the barrier. He screamed unintelligible curses at Zhy, at Ar’Zoth, and most of all, at Torplug. “Who are you?” he finally managed to spit out.

The small-man’s legs flailed in the open air. His arms were bound by the web of green tentacles, and he tried to speak, but another tentacle edged up from his chest and slapped his mouth shut.

“I will tell you who he is, young man. And if you open your mouth, I shall silence you in the same manner.” Qainur’s eyes were all whites as he hazarded a look out at the flailing Torplug. “Your little friend here is a demon hunter. A Knight of the Black Dawn.”

The mercenary started to roar but quickly stopped when he noticed the black in Ar’Zoth’s eyes. Zhy still stood, his feet nearly frozen into the stone stairs. “Impossible,” he whispered.

“Impossible? Impossible! No, never! Why do you say that? Drunk!”

“I—he—killed Knights. Saved our lives from them. They were hunting us.” He hoped the lie would offer some sort of way out of this. Some way to save Torplug.

At the same time, he couldn’t help but wonder if Torplug was actually part of the Dawn or some other secret society. He had been so secretive during the entire trip. But no, why would he kill his own members? No, it was impossible. Ar’Zoth was mad—insane beyond anything he could have imagined. He had to be. Right? “The Dawn hunts demons and those who work with demons,” Ar’Zoth barked. “He killed the
gherwza
. And he was going to try to kill me.”

Torplug’s eyes widened as he tried to speak. Ar’Zoth released the tendril that held the mage’s mouth shut. “Lies. Lies. Lies! I killed Dawn members! I—”

The tentacle slapped shut again, like the sound of a beaver’s tale hitting the water. “Enough! Enough I said! I don’t rightly care what you have to say. You have destroyed one of my minions and you will pay the price!” He glowered at the mage. Zhy swore he could see the tendrils of light loosen and become translucent.

“Then…” was all Zhy managed to whisper.

Qainur stood in his barrier, but his barking and shouting had ceased. He, too, was wrestling with the same thoughts. Was Torplug truly a Knight, or was Ar’Zoth…a demon? A demon! He is a demon!

The same thought struck Zhy and he almost collapsed. The
gherwza!
He had said it was his
gherwza
. For Sacuan’s sake…

“Sacuan cannot help you now, little ones. I have tired of this game. You came here under false pretenses, I’m afraid. Dragging this—this little
worm
along on your journey has only brought you an early demise, I’m afraid. I will not suffer those who kill my minions or challenge my intentions.”

Torplug still struggled violently against his bonds. Zhy’s jaw fell a little as his eye caught a glimmer of light between the mage’s hands, but a wave of nausea passed over him as he realized Ar’Zoth saw the motion as well.

“I said I am tired…” the warlock groaned.

Then the green tentacles released themselves from Torplug’s body noiselessly, and Torplug fell, screaming. The small-man’s legs kicked and spun in a whirl, but he quickly vanished over the rim of the chasm. Whatever spell Torplug had started to cast fizzled and fell to the canyon below in so many tiny droplights of light. A wail began its pitiful echo across the vast canyon.

Qainur spared them the sound of the body hitting the bottom of the canyon, as he roared.

“You still want to learn from me, little boy?” Ar’Zoth sneered at Qainur.

“No, I want to kill you!” Qainur snapped.

“So be it!” he barked, drawing a great sword of his own. “The barrier has been removed! To the death!”

Zhy stood, transfixed. Fear had rooted him in place, and he watched in detached horror as the bull-headed mercenary charged the powerful warlock.

“So, you want to play that game, do you?” the seith said and darted back, parrying a strike by Qainur. His large frame consumed the doorway, but Zhy swore he saw movement inside, but when he looked again, there was nothing.
Is someone else here?

“You killed my friend,” Qainur barked, thrusting this sword, only to have his arm jarred mercilessly by a block.

“Of course. He tried to kill me.” A vicious blow knocked Qainur back into the door frame. The warrior spun away. Zhy still stood frozen, one foot on one stair and one on another, watching as his friend leapt to his feet just in time to fend off another strike.

“Had you come in peace, it might have been different,” the seith purred.

Zhy wanted to speak, and he opened his mouth, but he was too stunned by the turn of events to move a muscle. “Q ...” was all he could whisper. Over the commotion of the fight, his bare plea was smothered. He started to turn back to look down the canyon, but a sudden vertigo stopped him, and he shifted his glance back to the trees. But something seemed to grab his head and turn it back to the battle. The voice again spoke. Again, it was not his father.
No. You watch this. You get to see the result of stupid decisions. I told you to kill them. I told you. I told you.

And then he thought he heard his father speak. Sadness as deep as the Opal Sea roiled into his brain
. Is this better than a bar stool…?
Oh son, I am so sorry.

Zhy’s focus blurred and then sharpened. He turned to watch Qainur fight the warlock. Against all reason, he hoped that Qainur would succeed—that somehow the pig-headed brute would get lucky.

“We came in peace, you bastard!” the mercenary yelped as the sword gashed his leg, leaving a ribbon of torn clothing and bright red blood. Qainur danced backward along the small stone courtyard, but Ar’Zoth moved with almost a blur of motion.

“Really?” the seith chirped. He swung at Qainur again, his swing a bit low, but enough to draw more blood from a shoulder. The mercenary danced furiously, trying to get in a jab or a thrust, even a chance to trip the warlock—anything. “Last time I checked—” Ar’Zoth paused to deliver a wicked backhand thrust, which was skillfully avoided by Qainur.”—
Bolt of Sacuan
—” Ar’Zoth thrust and Qainur desperately parried the blow.”—is not used to greet a stranger.” Qainur spun away from another backhand jab, ducked, spun, and jumped, swinging wildly. It was swiftly blocked.

Qainur only roared. His voice was full of rage and despair. He was outmatched and he knew it. The two battled in the small space before the entryway, each racing from one end to the other. Ar’Zoth kept chipping away at the mercenary—a cut here, a slice there. It would only be minutes before the man would be sliced open. Again, Zhy swore he saw motion in the castle beyond, but the figures of the warlock and Qainur kept flying across his vision.

It took all his reserves to remain upright. Yet he fought. But he was only delaying his own demise—and Zhy’s.

Zhy was still rooted in place. He never thought to draw his small knife. As the battle raged before him, he heard his father’s voice—or was it his own?—but it was barely above a whisper.
Beg, lie, and weep, anything to survive.

“I tire of this game,” Zhy heard the seith say. There was a slight pause, and Qainur leapt—his only chance so far at an offensive attack. He was in mid-air, the sword angled correctly for a slashing blow, his feet square, and his body straight. If only his sword would strike…

But in a flash, a green net of light enveloped him, his sword thrust sideways against his body. “You wanted to learn from me? You wanted to see a warrior who can also cast magic. Well, you have learned. You have learned that the greatest warlock can be the best swordsman. Now you know. You may take that to your grave.”

The warlock violently thrust his arms outward, and Qainur went swinging out above the cavern, green tendrils glowing as they enveloped his body. He looked like a net of fish from the southern seas, thrashing and fighting against the web. Growls rose up from the mercenary’s throat, but they never made it past the green tentacle over his lips.

“You could have learned these things!” the warlock shouted. “You could have, you could have! If it weren’t for your little Welcferian whore! Die, worthless maggot!”

There was no growl, no scream. The tendrils of green energy released and Qainur went sailing down silently, his eyes closed.

Zhy covered his ears. He did not want to hear the agonizing crunch as the body smashed against the snow-covered rocks in the canyon below. As he stood with his arms up, he had a sudden wave of vertigo.

After a few moments of silence, he dared a look up at the seith. The sword was gone. The warlock straightened his robe, ran a finger through his short hair, and smiled at Zhy. His yellow teeth seemed to take on a deeper urine-like hue, and his eyes again shifted color, from gray to blue to black to blue.

“So…do you wish to challenge me? Perhaps with that fruit knife?”

Zhy stared. “You—” he started to say, but then thought better of it. “No. No, I do not.”

The seith made a sound in the back of his throat. “Good. Good. Your friends were a bit too headstrong and stupid. I don’t like having spells cast at me. Why did you come?”

Answer honestly.
“I—we came here to learn from you. Qainur—the mercenary—was the one who convinced me to come along.”

“To learn from me, that was it? Was that what you were told? Hrmph. I guess the mage had other ideas? In any case, now they are gone, and you do not wish a challenge.”

Zhy shook his head sheepishly.

“I thought not. Well, then I guess you have only two options left.”

He looked at the seith.

“You see, I do not like visitors here. The wards at the entrance…well, your mage was not half-bad. Of course, now he’s left the place wide open for others to come…which sets my poor nerves on edge. My trap on the path must not be working, or you would all be at the bottom of the canyon now. Unless you are adept at surviving blizzards!” He looked at Zhy and laughed. “Or maybe you can! Nice work.” He paused, wiping something from his lip. “Now. Where…? Ah! Yes. You see, I cannot stand the demon-hunting filth that calls itself the Black Dawn, because, well, I really depend on demonic magic. If you had read about warlocks you would know that!”

“I know that you harness demonic magic,” Zhy said quietly.

“Ah, good! But, I, among many, harness it better than most. Much better! I am exiled here, yes, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have any powers. Fools! Fools!” He turned his head sideways and talked to—someone?—something?—on his periphery. “Right! Exactly how I thought it would go.”

He’s mad.

“Mad? Mad! What is mad, Zhy? What is mad? Ah! You wonder how I know your name. Fool! Don’t bother trying to figure it out. You will only use up whatever brain you have left, you slobbering drunk.
Drunk!
”

Zhy moved his left foot ever so slightly, as if trying to back down the stairs. But vertigo overtook him and he planted his leg back onto the solid stone.

“Ah…don’t you just love the cold? So inviting, so bracing!” He crossed his arms over his chest and shook like a child. “Now, see there is this myth that somehow the Temple of M’Hzrut keeps all the demons at bay. Have you heard of it?”

Zhy nodded.
Why is he still talking to me? Why can’t he just kill me?

“I only give what you don’t want, drunken fool!”

He shook his head violently, as if thousands of bees were trapped inside of his skull. “So. Your choices—you can die.” He pointed out to the canyon. “Or join me here. I need someone to help me regain my full powers.”

“Why is that?” Zhy heard himself ask. What in Sacuan’s name…how? Not only was Zhy woozy from the height, but the warlock’s insane rambling was dizzying.

“I want to rule the world, of course,” the seith responded. “I see you think that’s funny. Maybe I should kill you now.” And green light danced on his fingers.

“No!” Zhy pleaded. “Please…please continue.”

“I don’t have much more to add, really, how hard is that to grasp?”

Zhy started to think back along the journey. Suddenly he began to fit the puzzle pieces together. “So the Temple…you need to get to the Temple.”

A confused look passed over the seith’s face. “What temple?” Then the unshaven face lit up. “Ah yes, that Temple. The Temple. Ha! No, that was a diversion—I’m sure Gozath had a little fun in slaughtering a few Protectors, but whoever goes there now is wasting their time. The real work is here. Oh how I put up a fight! A fight to end all fights. When they exiled me, I protested, I pleaded, I begged. ‘No, no, not in the cold wilderness, never would I survive there!’ I begged. And that is exactly where they sent me. Here.” He gestured to the valley and the stoic evergreens reaching up along the pathway. “When they dropped me off, they removed the bones of the previous tenant. I cried. They never saw through me. Never. And magicians they called themselves! Great mages of the day. They knew NOTHING.”

“About what?” Zhy asked, trying to make his voice sound conversational and relaxed. Instead, he came off like the shivering and terrified creature he was. And cold. So brutally cold.